


Get Me Out of My Mind

by lemonlipbalm



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Body Dysphoria, It's not a big thing but it's there, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Phone Sex, Saihara is sad and horny, Trans Male Character, Trans Saihara Shuichi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlipbalm/pseuds/lemonlipbalm
Summary: Saihara isn't normally very good at taking the edge off on his own. Momota unwittingly helps him find a way.





	Get Me Out of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've really had the chance to write, but now I'm off of school and hoping to get back into the swing of things! I wrote this little thing on a whim because I'm weak to the idea of Saihara pining, even in... questionable ways, haha.
> 
> Fair warning that Momota is entirely unaware of what's going on on Saihara's end, so if that bothers you then you might not like this fic.

Nights where Saihara is left to his own devices are the hardest, he thinks.

Normally he doesn't have to spend his evenings completely alone. Normally he's with Momota, either at one of their houses or out in the park near Momota’s, training or talking or simply lying in the grass and letting the cacophony of crickets swallow the sounds of their breathing. But Momota had been spending time with his grandparents tonight and Saihara had been left to do whatever he wanted in his friend's absence, and trying to exercise had, as always, proven difficult without someone there to motivate him.

He lies in bed on his back, having already slipped into a T-shirt and boxers with the intent of going to bed early. So far it isn't working because he can't fall asleep. He's not exhausted enough for that, exhausted in the way that leaves him short of breath and aching down to his bones like he is after working up a good sweat. He likes the catharsis that comes with that, the numbness that washes over his brain and drowns out every noise in his head save for the pounding of his own pulse. Without it, he stares at the ceiling, and his mind races.

It starts with a fleeting tickle at the back of his skull. A suggestion whispered into the corner of his frontal lobe, one that he finds himself entertaining, as usual, when he has nothing else to do with himself. He thinks about how he misses Momota, and the rest follows like clockwork: his fingertips slide down and trace the waistband of his boxers, not even entirely consciously at first, and after allowing himself only a moment of deliberation they push beneath it.

He doesn't indulge himself in this manner often, and when he does he rarely reaches completion. It never feels quite right. On nights like this one his body is an instrument with one string that's out of tune; at best the sensation is slightly dissonant, and at worst it rattles him, leaves him wanting to crawl out of his skin in the same way that one might shed clothes.

Tonight, he thinks he's fine. Tonight, he circles his clit with one finger and it's alright. It's _okay_ , he guesses. It doesn't thrill him, doesn't sate the want welling in his chest, but it's somewhere close to satisfactory, _almost_ enough.

He isn't sure whether that's more or less frustrating than when his own touch repulses him.

Saihara is startled out of his thoughts a few unproductive minutes later by the sound of his phone ringing on his nightstand. He leans over to glance at the caller ID, and upon seeing that it's Momota he jolts slightly, scrambling to grab it with his clean hand. “H-Hello?” he answers it somewhat shakily, trying to sound natural, like he doesn't still have a hand halfway down his underwear. “What are you calling for at this time of night, Momota-kun?”

“It's not that late,” Momota replies, voice slightly distorted through the other line. “It's only… just past eleven. We've stayed out together later than that.”

“Ah… I guess.” Saihara sheepishly says, “I was just getting ready for bed, so I thought you probably would be, too.”

“Nah, I'm not tired,” Momota says. “Oh- was I interrupting you, though? Sorry, man, if you're gonna sleep I can just call back tomorrow-”

“It's fine,” Saihara cuts in perhaps a bit too insistently, then clears his throat. “You weren't, uh, interrupting anything important.” His hand shifts between his legs, grazing his clit again, and he knows that he should pull back. He doesn’t. “Besides, I-I like talking to you.”

“Aw, I like talking to you too, Shuuichi,” Momota says. There's a fondness in his voice that makes Saihara blush even now. “Anyway, I just wanted to call and say sorry that I had to skip out on training tonight. Sometimes I just gotta spend time with my folks too, y’know? You know how old people are, they get antsy if you leave ‘em alone for too long.”

Saihara doesn’t know, actually, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he responds with a distracted, “Mhm… I hope you enjoyed yourself anyway, though.”

“Yeah, it was pretty alright! I mean, they’re not the most exciting people on the planet, but…” He proceeds to launch into a story about his grandmother trying to teach him how to cook something and his inattention nearly leading to the kitchen being burned down, but Saihara has stopped listening. Momota’s words all blend together as Saihara focuses instead on the way he sounds, even crackling slightly with interference. The baritone of his voice, the inflections in his tone when he gets excited, the depth in his laughter. This is what he pays attention to when they’re sprawled out on the dewy ground and Momota is lecturing him on the stars that they see. He thinks that he could listen to Momota talk forever, even without registering what’s being said.

His hand slides further down to rub slow circles into his core. _I shouldn’t be doing this_ , he thinks. _This is wrong._ His fingers are slicker than they were before. He takes a slow, uneven breath.

“Shuuichi?” Momota asks suddenly, snapping Saihara’s focus back into place. “You alright, bro? You’re real quiet.”

“M’fine,” Saihara answers hastily, going still. “Just, uh. Didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Oh, okay. S’all good.” There’s a brief pause before he teases, “You’re not about to fall asleep or anything, are you?”

“No, I- I’m perfectly awake,” he assures the other boy. It feels like a lie, if only by omission. “I still haven’t finished getting ready for bed yet.”

“Right. Well, like I said, don’t let me keep you up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Saihara says. “Um. What are you up to now, though?”

It’s a ploy to keep Momota talking longer, to keep his voice filtering into Saihara’s ears. It’s skeevy. It’s underhanded. The thought alone makes Saihara twitch.

“Eh, not much. I was just checking up on my plants, and then I figured I’d go take a shower before getting ready for bed, myself.”

Saihara swallows and immediately latches onto that statement. Shower. Momota showering. Something perfectly innocuous, all things considered, but Saihara’s imagination conjures a picture of Momota standing beneath a deluge that pulls apart stiffly gelled clumps of hair to leave them to hang around his face, dripping, letting the water run down his sharp jawline, his broad shoulders, his—his chest—

A whimper rises in the back of his throat, barely contained. He strings it out into proper words instead in an attempt to not draw suspicion. “Oh, s-so. You don’t think you’ll do any exercise tonight?”

“Eh, maybe. I don’t need to exercise _every_ night,” Momota says.

“I know,” Saihara lets out an unsteady laugh, “you don’t even exercise every night that we’re together.”

Momota splutters defensively, “I-I do most nights! We just end up doing other shit sometimes.” The line is silent for a moment then, like he’s come to a realization. “Did you really want to work out that bad tonight, Shuuichi?”

“Oh, no, I mean- it’s fine,” Saihara assures him. One finger traces his opening, applies just a bit of pressure. “It’s getting late, and I wouldn’t want to impose, or really, uh, cause either of us to have to go out of our way to meet up right now…”

_Dishonest. Greedy. Sick, you're sick._

“You sure? Because I wouldn’t mind.”

He could stop. He _should_ stop. He should take Momota up on his offer and go see him in person. That’s better than getting off, even if he’ll be left with an ache in his chest and between his legs like he so often is on nights like tonight.

“Oh, I know,” Momota continues, “we could just do some curl-ups right now!”

Saihara stops short. “Huh?”

“Like, just put your phone on speaker and do some curl-ups, and it’ll be just like we’re doing ‘em in the same room together,” Momota explains. “Let’s see… we’ll just do fifty for tonight.”

It seems as if Momota’s already made up his mind, so Saihara decides not to argue, even if he has no intention of moving to do as he says. Momota tells him, “No slacking on your end, alright? I trust you,” and the words make Saihara’s gut twist with shame.

He sets his phone to speaker and places it face up on the sheets a bit away from him. Momota trusts him. Two digits glide effortlessly up and down his slit, and Saihara pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Momota trusts him, and has no idea that he’s doing this.

He hears the other boy begin to count. “One… Two…”

What would Momota think if he knew what Saihara was up to? Nothing good, probably. At best he’d be put off, at worst disgusted. Anyone would be if they caught their best friend masturbating to the sound of their voice. 

“Nine… Ten…” Momota grunts between heavy breaths, and Saihara lets himself pant loudly, hoping that his need can be mistaken for exertion.

Momota doesn’t know how Saihara feels to begin with. Momota doesn’t know that he could do anything to Saihara, anything at all, much less that Saihara has fantasized about as much. Momota doesn’t know how many times Saihara’s been in a similar position, touching himself to the thought of him, wishing that Momota could return the sentiment enough to want to touch him that way instead.

_I shouldn’t be doing this. This is taking advantage of him._ He curls a finger into himself and meets almost no resistance.

There’s a waver in Momota’s voice when he counts that sounds genuine, like he’s actually doing what he promised. Saihara thinks back to the times that he’s watched Momota curl himself up, core muscles flexing, sweat streaking his forehead and rolling down his neck with the bob of his Adam’s apple. A second finger pushes into him alongside the first, and he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs through his nose, actively suppressing the ever-present urge to make noise.

Momota doesn’t notice. Saihara tightens his jaw and crooks his fingers back and forth, loosely slotting his clit between his index finger and thumb and pressing down.

_Liar. Pervert. You're depraved._

But being aware of his own depravity does nothing to temper it. If anything it makes the heat in his belly coil tighter, as if his body derives some sick, instinctive pleasure from this understanding. His hand moves faster now that he can feel himself getting closer, his arousal so potent that he can hear it, in and out, up and down, building with every static-filled breath from his phone until he’s choking on his own breaths just to keep quiet.

Momota groans, grits out a strained “Almost there.” It’s entirely innocent.

Saihara claps a hand over his mouth, moans into his cupped palm and comes, harder than he’s ever been able to make himself come before.

“—aaand fifty!” Momota finishes in between gasps for air. “Whew… see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

With his trembling free hand, Saihara picks up his phone and switches off speaker before bringing it back to his ear. “Not at all,” he says around sharp, exhausted little intakes of breath, and he hates how easily Momota buys his act.

“Alright! I knew you could do it,” Momota says. “And we’re meeting up tomorrow to train together for real, yeah?”

“Of course,” Saihara says, not knowing how he’ll be able to look Momota in the eye.

“Great!” Momota sounds so pleased with him that it almost turns his stomach. “I’m gonna hop off for now, though. _Definitely_ need to shower after this.”

“Ah… yeah, me too…” Saihara murmurs absentmindedly, finally withdrawing his hand from his boxers and making a point not to look at it.

They exchange goodbyes. The bliss fades, the tingles that had run down to his thighs dissipating with his afterglow, and it all leaves only guilt in its wake. He lets both of his arms fall to his sides, the silence making his heartbeat ring too loudly in his eardrums. He should get up, he thinks. He should get clean. There are a lot of things that he should be doing. He doesn’t do them.

Instead, he lies there, hot and damp and undeservedly satisfied, staring at the ceiling. All of his feverish thoughts condense themselves into one coherent statement.

_God, I’m a freak._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm trans, but my relationship to my body is definitely not universal, so keep that in mind. I just thought it would feel nice to write about as I understand it.
> 
> That being said, I hope some of you enjoyed it, and if you did then kudos and comments are always a plus! I'm still not used to writing stuff like this, so feedback is very much appreciated, haha.


End file.
